


Shining, Like A Present

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Partners, Bondage, Bottom af Draco, Dom/sub, Edging, Getting Together, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sex Toys, Spanking, Top af Harry, face fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: The discovery of a small silver box at the site of a case opens up new possibilities.





	Shining, Like A Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveglowsinthedark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveglowsinthedark/gifts).



> For my dearest, darling [loveglowsinthedark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loveglowsinthedark/pseuds/loveglowsinthedark), who deserves wonderfully smutty things on her birthday. Hopefully, this'll suffice. <3
> 
> Unbeta-ed, so please forgive any mistakes.
> 
> All characters belong to JK Rowling and associated publishers. I make no profit from this work of ~~smut~~ fiction.

Once was an accident. Twice could have been a coincidence. But by the fourth… Well, there’s no way around the fact that it’s deliberate. In fact, as Draco brushes back an errant lock of hair that’s escaped his bun, Harry sees that his eyes are already searching the room for the small silver box.

Harry frowns, then turns back to speaking with the shaken witch whose dress shop has been broken into. She’s a bit fragile — apparently, she was waiting until the end of the week to transfer the gold in her till to Gringott’s — so he pastes his most comforting hero-smile on and clasps her shoulder gently.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She nods, gulping back her tears, and he goes on, “We’re very close to catching them; why don’t you have a seat and catch your breath, and let us look around? You can fill out the forms of missing items if you feel up to it.”

Looking up at him with big, wet eyes, she mumbles, “I know I set the wards last night,” but allows Harry to lead her to the stool behind her counter. He Summons a glass and tilts his wand over it, splashing in some cold water. Condensation immediately bleeds through the glass and she shivers as she drinks, but looks steadier — and grateful. Harry gives her another pat, then joins Draco where he’s walking the perimeter of the shop, wand out, checking for trace magical signatures. 

“Find it yet?” Harry’s voice, low in Draco’s ear, obviously startles him. He twitches, then twists his head to see Harry standing behind him.

“Find what?” Draco asks, too nonchalant to be believable. 

Harry snorts. “What we’re both looking for. C’mon, it’s going to be here, right?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Draco says stiffly. A flush rises to melt over his sharp cheekbones, colouring it the same shade of pink as the sky just before the sun goes down. Harry likes that time of day. “There hasn’t been one at _every_ break-in this month.”

“At four out of nine of them,” Harry says drily. But it’s not as if Draco’s wrong, and Harry can’t get a read on whether he’ll be relieved or disappointed if they don’t come across the box this time. He’s never quite sure, and though Draco’s flush deepens, he refuses to give anymore indication; his thin, shapely mouth presses into a flat line, and the agitated glance he gives Harry speaks volumes. With a sigh, Harry heads over to the opposite end of the room and starts casting.

***

The first break-in occurred in a bookshop; the gold had been emptied from the till, and several rare editions of wizarding text — though none Dark, thank Merlin — had been taken. Most of these were, interestingly enough, erotic wizarding literature and hadn’t that been fun; though Harry and Draco had been partners for over two years, Harry still found it ironic that Draco — the _bad boy_ of the Auror Department — was so reticent to discuss the topic of sex. Former Death Eater or no, he was more likely to freeze you with his gaze than give any indication he'd like to shag you. It’s “crass,” he’d said, and “unseemly,” and a whole host of other boring, pretentious adjectives, followed by a sniff and a “It’s just not _done,_ Potter, though of course how would you know — it’s not as if you’ve been taught manners at any point in your life.”

Harry knew Draco dated, of course; they both did. In fact, Draco’s most recent boyfriend stopped by their office so often that Harry was finally forced to resort to setting hexes where Robert liked to sit — small things, merely designed to make him uncomfortable; he took too much time away from their casework, and it was disgusting to watch Draco arch one of those damned pale brows at him in tacit promise of something to come. After a slightly scorched arse, though, Robert's visits became a _lot_ less frequent and then finally stopped altogether. When Harry, trying to be supportive, asked what had happened, Draco clipped out, “We like different things,” and left it at that.

So it wasn’t as if either of them were virgins. Which was why it was so funny to see the vaguely hunted shadow on Draco’s face — the wary glances Draco darted at him — as they’d parsed through examples of the books that had been taken. Harry hadn’t exactly thought the whole “erotic literature” section would come as a revelation to Draco, but he was surprised at the ease with which Draco unerringly flipped through the pages depicting beautifully drawn — and incredibly graphic, complete with sound effects when the page was touched — pictures of men copulating with abandon. Something about the look on Draco's face, the intensity with which he scanned the page, brought the question to Harry's lips — in a way he'd never intended.

“So you can read about it,” Harry asked quietly, “and do it, but you can’t talk about it?”

Somber grey eyes met his for a protracted beat. “I’ve always preferred the doing over the talking. But what would you like to know, Harry?” Draco asked evenly. “You always seem to be asking something. So tell me,” he added, voice gone low, “what are you really asking?”

It was the most forthright they'd been with each other; a direct challenge rather than an intricate dance of steps avoiding the tension that Harry could never quite believe they both felt. And curiosity aside, there were… _rules_ about this sort of thing; Harry had a fairly strict type that Draco did not fit, no matter how attractive Harry found him. 

Nevertheless, Draco’s gaze and voice — the heat in his eyes, accompanied by the muted groan from one of the men on the page, getting sucked off — had Harry’s cock stiffening up in record time. He fumbled the book in his hand and dropped it, then hastily knelt to retrieve it, robes bunching around him, all-too-aware of Draco’s long legs, and Draco’s crotch at eye-level. 

He was about to stand when a glint of silver under the bookshelf caught his eye; a small box the size of his palm. Quickly, he reached out to grab it, only to have Draco suddenly crouch down beside him and draw his wand, Summoning the box and letting it hover in the air as it twirled. “What’s this? Think they dropped something?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. It was the only thing he _could_ say, and barely croaked at that; Draco’s breath was warm on his face, and he had that intensely interested look on his face that always made Harry want to—

“Shall we?” Quirking Harry a crooked grin, Draco murmured the incantation to check for traps and curses, then another to cover his hands in a finely-wrought protective charm that wouldn’t damage any lingering remains of magic on the box. He pried open the lid with a soft _snick_ and looked inside. Harry did too. 

Draco’s voice was rough. “It’s a…”

“A cock-ring,” Harry said, staring at it. He licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“Cock-and-ball,” Draco corrected him softly, lifting it out with gentle fingers. Harry stared at him in astonishment. The pliable leather straps — three loops of soft black material — dangled in stark contrast to Draco’s pale skin. “I think it’s charmed. I can feel… wisps of magic on it.”

“To do what, do you think?” Harry asked.

“I couldn’t possibly venture a guess,” Draco murmured. He slipped the ring back into the box and flicked the lid closed with one finger, then met Harry’s eyes and blinked at whatever he saw there.

Curiously, Harry studied him for a moment. His cock hadn’t forgotten the subtle gauntlet that Draco thrown, but he was suddenly less concerned about the rules. He lowered his voice into one of sharp command. “Guess anyway,” he said.

“Extended pleasure,” Draco blurted with satisfying immediacy, throat turning a splendid, blotchy pink. Harry gave him an encouraging nod. “Perhaps… perhaps the wearer receives more — stronger — pleasure, the longer he submits to wearing it.”

“Submits?” Harry asked. He held out his palm. Without breaking his gaze, Draco incanted the protective charm over Harry’s hand, and settled the box into the middle of it.

“I— Yes. That’s the feeling I get,” he said, shakily. He started to rise, but Harry stayed him with a touch to the shoulder, standing first and then flicking two fingers in a beckoning gesture that had Draco’s mouth falling open, his breath coming in light, fast bursts. He rose too, slowly, a faint sheen of sweat gleaming on his forehead. Interesting. He cleared his throat, finally breaking Harry’s gaze once they were both standing. “If I were to guess.”

“It’s a good one,” Harry said thoughtfully. He looked at the box clutched in his hand, its metal cool to the touch against his suddenly overheated skin, then back to Draco, who was avoiding his gaze, jaw mutinously set. “I’ll log it in with the rest of the evidence.”

“Not on your life, Potter,” Draco snapped, abruptly back in fighting-form, imperiously holding out his hand. Raising his eyebrows, Harry passed the box back over. “I’m not likely to let you take sole credit for finding evidence that closes this case.”

“I _am_ the one who found it,” Harry pointed out. 

“The one who would have touched it bare-handed, without checking for curses,” Draco said, lip curling in a sneer that showed just a flash of white teeth. Harry’s cock fattened further under his robes.

He shrugged, turning away, and they’d said nothing more about it.

Not until the second box was found, a week later. It was underneath the till of the apothecary, and when Draco murmured Harry's name with a strange tone in his voice, Harry looked up from where he was casting diagnostic charms on the wards.

“What?” he asked, examining Draco intently. His lower lip was rosy, likely having just been released from between his teeth.

Draco levitated the box slowly, eyes straying to the owner of the apothecary who was still hunting through his pre-made potions and marking down missing items. Harry’s breath hitched; he cast a protective charm on his hands, and plucked the box out of the air. Draco swept over to him a moment later — having vacillated enough, Harry supposed.

Harry looked at him, waiting until Draco’s eyes drew up to meet his. “Should we open it?” he asked, smoothing a slow stroke over the metal lid. 

Draco licked his lips; an unconscious movement. “I already checked it for curses,” he said steadily, gaze settling back onto the box. But there was a faint breathlessness to his tone, a _curiosity_. He noticed Harry still looking at him and his striking face went impassive. Harry smiled, and flicked the lid up.

Inside was a red strip of satin, with ribbons that dangled from either side. Harry held it up to the light to inspect it. But for the vibrant colour and shimmer of the material, it seemed fairly innocuous. He held it out. “What is it?”

“A- a blindfold,” Draco said in a wooden voice.

“Are you sure?” Harry looked more closely at it. “It doesn’t look like one.”

With a low cough, Draco turned his face away. He stared at the wall for a moment, gathering himself. “I’m _not_ sure, actually.”

“Then we should see, so we know how to log it into evidence,” Harry said. He cast a series of charms over it to test its safety. Draco’s lips parted, eyes wide. 

“You’re just going to put that thing _on_ yourself?” Draco asked in disbelief.

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “Of course not.”

Ticking a glance toward the shopkeeper, Harry ambled through the curtains that led to the inventory space. It was small, musty. Crammed with shelving units filled to the brim with potions vials covered in a fine layer of dust. He waited, and a moment later Draco joined him, parting the curtains with one hand and ducking inside with just enough reticence to show he thought Harry was daft.

But he’d come.

Harry crooked a finger at him and Draco drew himself up, squaring his shoulders and striding forward. “What.”

Harry clasped his shoulder with a gentle hand. Draco’s pupils dilated, his eyes over-bright, and he let himself be rotated until he was facing away from Harry.

“Hold still,” Harry murmured. 

The muscles in the back of Draco’s neck went taut as Harry stepped close enough that their bodies were brushing. His prick, plump already, grazed the curve of Draco’s arse as he lifted the blindfold and drew it around Draco’s eyes, tying the ribbons just under Draco’s bun. 

“I guess it _is_ a blindfold,” he said, circling Draco to inspect his handiwork. Draco stood stock-still, hands fisted at his sides. Harry reached up and tweaked an edge of the material that was folded under, against Draco’s temple, and Draco jerked. “Is it charmed too?”

“Yes,” Draco whispered. He tried again, louder. “Yes. Images.”

“Of what?” Harry asked curiously. 

“What do you _think_ , Potter?” Draco sneered with just enough vitriol to turn Harry’s grin predatorial. Not that Draco could see it, of course. And he didn’t, Harry noted, move to take the blindfold _off_.

“Let’s pretend I’m extremely uncreative,” Harry returned, adjusting another bit of material that didn’t need to be adjusted. His fingers skimmed over the shell of Draco’s ear.

“Of—fantasies, I believe,” Draco said thickly. “And there is a physically-linked response.”

“What kind?” Harry prodded. He paused, eyes fastened to the growing bulge under Draco’s robes. “You’re getting hard.”

“May I just take this damned thing off, now?” Draco ground out.

“I never said you couldn’t,” Harry said, amused. 

Draco ripped the blindfold off, looking murderous — and aroused. 

Harry grabbed the blindfold from Draco, who had shoved it at him, panting raggedly. “This sort of stupid stunt is why you have a reputation for recklessness,” Draco fumed. “I don’t know what kind of bloody point you’re trying to make, but—”

“Don’t you?” Harry asked. 

Breath hitching, Draco pulled a hand up to rub the back of his neck. He looked everywhere but at Harry while Harry replaced the blindfold into the box and held it out. “They haven’t been back here,” Draco said at length, taking the box. “I doubt even the owner has; he makes his potions upstairs, he said. There’s too much dust; some of it would have been disturbed.”

Harry nodded, graciously accepting the subject change. They’d talk more, later.

“I’ll log this into evidence,” Draco added softly, gesturing with the hand that was clutching silver, and that was that.

***

He doesn’t do it, Harry knows. Draco hasn’t recorded a single one of the toys they’ve found; Harry’s seen the evidence logs — combed through them meticulously, in fact, after the cock-and-ball ring, which didn’t show up in the scrolls. Whatever Draco does with the items, the MLE isn’t aware of them, and Harry is alternately turned on and exasperated that Draco hasn’t just yet—

Draco calls out his name, ripping Harry from his reverie; he sounds cautiously pleased and Harry goes to stand next to him. “What is it?”

“Magical signatures and blood evidence,” Draco says, pointing with the tip of his wand. It’s a good lead.

Harry pulls his own and collects the droplets of blood while Draco is coercing the sparkling green-black mist into a bottle for study. He stoppers it, then holds it up for inspection, and Harry’s eyes wander to his throat, arched back and exposed. He steps closer, inhaling the expensive spice of Draco’s aftershave. Draco’s chin comes down and Harry smiles at him. “No box, then?”

“I knew there wouldn’t be,” Draco says, posh, elegant voice gone scratchy. He seems bewildered, softer than he usually lets on, and it’s all Harry can do not to shove his tongue down Draco’s throat and have him right now. Harry likes this look on him; he likes it very much, indeed. 

Frankly, he never considered Draco in any real way before the first box. Draco is too… uncompromising. Too insistent on getting his own way. Too haughty. Which Harry — if he’s honest — has always been drawn to, but it creates certain… complications, for someone with his tastes. 

“But how closely did you look?” Harry asks. “Because I haven't really, yet.”

Draco huffs a little; that strand of pale hair has come loose again, and it flies up with his breath, then back down, falling across his cheek. Draco swipes it away; tucks it behind his ear. “I looked,” he says. But even as the word leaves his mouth, his eyes are roving. His colour is high, and his breath starts to quicken, narrow chest rising and falling in a quick pattern.

“You take the front of the shop,” Harry directs him, letting his fingers stray to Draco’s waist for a split second. Draco looks at him, wide-eyed and startled. They’re not the sort of partners who touch — at least, they weren't, before. Harry wonders if there’s a chance Draco genuinely didn’t know where this was _going_. Where it _had_ to go, after he’d seen Draco holding those tiny loops of leather cord. “I’ll take the back.”

Draco's hesitation is sweet as treacle; Harry’s cock — half hard and already dampening the inside of his pants — stiffens further in his trousers and he turns so there’s no chance of the shopkeeper seeing him. He reaches down and adjusts himself, mouth curving when he glances up to see Draco’s eyes trained on his hand.

“Harry,” he says faintly. “You’ve no idea what you’re doing.”

“People usually tell me that,” Harry says with a grin. “And then…” He shrugs, straightening his glasses jauntily, and winks. “Go on, do what I tell you. If it’s not here, we’ll just have to use something from one of the first four.”

Draco wobbles, long slender limbs awkward and stiffly uncoordinated. His eyes have gone glassy. “Use something?”

“Sure,” Harry says easily. “To compare with the magical signature you just found. Unless you had a better idea?” he asks, all innocence.

“Yes, okay.” Drifting off as though _Imperiused,_ Draco heads to the front of the shop. He starts peeking under the counters and behind the fallen wooden mannequins for that telling shimmer of a silver box. Harry watches him for a moment before turning to his side of the shop. 

The thing is, despite Draco’s prediction — or warning, whatever it was — Harry _does_ know what he’s doing. It’s a finely-honed skill, almost an art-form, really, to identify a submissive. It takes even more practice and dedication to seduce one who’s new to the lifestyle or who has never thought to explore it. But he knows how to be patient — though, admittedly, he doesn’t _want_ to be; ever since that first little silver box appeared, Harry’s felt on fire half the day, blood burning just under the surface of his skin; palms itching for contact. He’d like to see what Draco looks like with a fist curled tight in his flaxen locks. 

As fascinated as Draco seems with the objects they keep finding, though, Harry strongly suspects he’s moulding something from clay, as it were. Draco’s taciturn nature in regard to sex, and his rigid ideals of what is “done” and what “isn’t,” make him a target likely to rabbit if Harry makes a misstep — so he’s being very, very careful. 

Because he’s going to have Draco, eventually. He thinks that was decided a long time ago — only neither of them knew it.

***

After spending hours at the scene of yet another break-in, bored and tired and not completely convinced that anything was _stolen_ , the reveal of the third box had Harry perking up, his heart skipping as he brought it over to Draco and displayed it like a gift.

“Another?” Draco asked. “This is getting out of hand.”

“It’s got to be on purpose,” Harry agreed. “A calling card, of sorts. We should probably go over the other crime scenes to see where we missed the others.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said, stepping closer. His eyes ticked up to meet Harry’s, his shoulders rounding forward. “It’s probably just a deviant who keeps dropping his playthings.”

“Mmm.” Harry’s mouth tightened. “We deviants are usually very, very careful with our playthings,” he said lowly. Startled, Draco glanced at him, and Harry continued, a note of censure in his voice, “And we treat them well, too.”

Draco swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Harry, you can’t be serious.”

“About which part?” Harry asked lightly.

“You’re not a— a—”

“A deviant?” Harry grinned. “No. I’m certainly not. Are you?”

Seeming stumped, Draco gave a helpless half-shrug and shake of the head. He looked slightly afraid, but for all that stepped nearer to examine the box. His hair was in a low ponytail today, stands coming loose around his face, and Harry imagined what it would feel like, wrapped around his wrist. His groin tightened with anticipation.

“Well, go on then,” Harry prompted. “I got to open the last.”

With a vaguely uneasy expression, Draco took the box from him and opened it, inhaling swiftly through his nostrils.

“It’s a—”

“It is, isn’t it,” Harry agreed. His pulse quickened. “Take it out.”

“No!” Draco looked at him, appalled.

Harry smirked, then conceded the point. The butt plug _was_ rather more obvious than a scrap of red satin or black leather, the rounded cone widening fractionally to the waist, then thinning out until it flared at the base, the silicon ribbed over the surface. It was smallish, a pretty colour — vivid turquoise — and Harry looked at it for a moment, then back to Draco, considering. It would look lovely against Draco’s pale skin, his rim stretched wide around it.

“Have you ever used one?” Harry asked. He snorted at the look on Draco’s face. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to drag you into the back room and test it on you.”

Draco closed the box with a definitive click. His eyes darkened, though from embarrassment or desire, Harry couldn’t quite tell. Probably both. He wavered for a moment, then said, “Yes,” so simply that Harry felt a surge of pride on his behalf. Draco sucked in another breath. “Have you?”

“I don’t,” Harry said. “No. Do you like them?”

“I—” Draco’s tongue darted out, wetting his upper lip. “Yes.”

“Not always, though.”

With a shuddering breath, Draco nodded. “I—sometimes it’s—” he broke off, words raspy as those on Veritaserum, and equally as compelled.

“Too easy then?” Harry guessed. Draco’s grey gaze flickered to Harry, and he nodded again. “Good to know,” Harry said.

“Potter,” Draco started. He stopped. His hand absently rubbed against his stomach, fingers clenching around the material of his robes. 

Harry reached out and snagged Draco’s wrist, prying his nervous hand away from himself. His heartbeat was as fast as a hummingbird’s wing under the pad of Harry’s thumb. “Malfoy,” he said pointedly. Draco’s breath left him in a loud exhale and Harry murmured, “You can tru—”

The sound of the door charm interrupted them, and Draco jerked his wrist away. He took a step back, and Harry gave him a warning look that caused Draco to straighten as though scolded, even as they got back to work.

***

They never talk about it when they haven’t just found a box. Harry _prefers_ to be in control, of course, but negotiations are another matter. He needs to know that _Draco_ knows he wants this, and he has no doubt of Draco's interest, of his desire, but fantasy is, by definition, separate from reality. Though Draco is able to _obey_ in ways that Harry never before suspected — though he has all of the major characteristics of a beautifully responsive submissive, to such a degree that Harry wonders how he's never noticed them before — he's resisting the pleasure Harry continues to implicitly offer during those brief moments after finding a new box. He stays silent whenever they leave a break-in site, his face so shuttered and eyes so stormy with some inner turmoil, it makes Harry want to force the issue. He thinks Draco may be _waiting_ for him to.

But Harry can’t. Not yet.

He knows the moment Draco finds the new box. His muffled shifting stops, and the silence that descends over the shop is so loud it would be unnerving if not for the effect it has on Harry’s cock. He looks around from where he’s searching a shelf of tailoring supplies to see Draco bend slowly at the waist, his arse bunching under his robes when they stretch tight across it. When Draco rises, he stands motionless for so long that Harry’s heart lodges in his throat. 

But then Draco turns, eyes steely and twice as sharp as the charmed knife Harry knows he keeps in his boot. He gives Harry a short nod, a glint of metal in his hand. Harry stays where he is, watching, and though a muscle jumps in Draco’s jaw, he gives a sigh and walks to Harry’s side.

“I told you,” Harry can’t resist saying. He’s resisting so much already; who can blame him?

Well, apparently obstinate, ferrety bastards can.

Draco glares, face twisting, but his cheeks flood with colour — even the tips of his ears turn red — when Harry reaches out to take the box from him. The metal shines like a present — which is what Harry has started to think of them as, really. 

His fingers coast under Draco’s knuckles, against the tender flesh on the outside of his hand, as Draco deposits the box into Harry’s palm. 

“Open it,” Harry instructs him gently. The box seems heavier somehow, resting on the flat of his open palm. His drinks in the pretty moue of disapproval on Draco’s face, but Draco steps closer anyhow.

“You’re such a prick,” he mumbles, his fingers — for the first time — clumsy over the tiny latch. “Why are you doing this?” He bends his head, cornsilk hair pulled back and mere inches from Harry’s face. “Really, Potter. This stopped being remotely funny weeks ago. Which, I know, gives you excessive credit, but your sense of humour has always been baffling, so.”

“I haven’t had much of a problem making you laugh before,” Harry says.

“ _At_ you, of course.”

“Liar.” It’s said with more fondness than Harry intends, but he doesn’t regret it. “And you know this isn’t about that.”

He thinks he hears, “Do I?” under Draco’s breath, but the white-gold glimmer of Draco’s hair in the dim light in the room has become too tantalising to resist. Harry leans in; he lets the tip of his nose graze the silky-soft strands, and inhales deeply. Draco’s hair smells, to his surprise, vaguely floral — though somehow no less masculine for it. Honeysuckle, perhaps, or carnation; spicy-sweet. Draco freezes, the latch finally fumbling open, Harry’s nose in his hair.

“What kind of hair potion do you use?” Harry asks, a burn of delight pulsing behind his breastbone.

“I have it specially made,” Draco answers, uncertain.

“It suits you,” Harry says, breathing him in again. Draco waits for a beat, then draws away, but doesn’t look up. Harry drags his gaze off him, and looks to the box in his hand. The hinge dangles open, the velvet red casing on the inside bright and merry, surrounded by the sparkle of the box. 

“What-?” Draco looks up at Harry in blank confusion as Harry pulls out the object. They both inspect it for a moment; it’s flat and round, a rosy peach, but Draco looks mystified as he charms his hands and lifts it cautiously, fingers brushing Harry’s. He fiddles with it for a moment, turning it over twice, then pulls his wand and begins muttering under his breath. He casts a _Revelio_ — which does nothing — and then, with a covert glance at Harry, casts another, adding a _Libido_. Harry tilts his head and watches the thing elongate and widen to reveal something vaguely cock-sized. It has a slit at one end, about five centimetres long. 

He traces it with his forefinger, and it trembles in Draco’s hand as he does. 

“Soft,” he says, evaluating Draco briefly. Draco’s eyes look strange and full of shadows, his pupils blown so wide Harry can barely see the rim of silver around them. 

“You didn’t—” He pauses, then seeks Harry with his gaze. Harry recognises that look; Draco wants reassurance. “Did you charm your hands?”

“No,” Harry says. He slips a finger inside the slit. Immediately the object clamps tight around it, starting a smooth, undulating suck. “Wet,” he murmurs.

A gust of air escapes Draco, then a moan so low Harry would think he’d imagined it if they weren’t standing so close. The shopkeeper doesn’t even look up from where she’s bent over her parchment, scribbling furiously. 

“Harry,” Draco says, and if he’s not already begging, the tone at least bodes well. 

“Draco,” Harry counters. He wants to kiss him. He won’t.

“What is it?” 

“A mouth,” Harry says. “I think it’s supposed to suck you.”

“Me,” Draco confirms, and Harry feels the knot of tension loosen in his chest. He looks up at Harry. “Why didn’t you protect your hands?”

“There’s no point,” Harry tells him. He blinks, mouth drawing down. “You’re not submitting them with the rest of the evidence, are you?”

Draco’s eyes dart away, then back. He gives a mute shake of his head, and taps the object with his wand until it returns to the bland, flat disc. “They’ve been for me.”

Harry stares at him for a moment, frowning deeper. Because fuck if he’s going to make this easy on Draco, after a month of his avoidant behavior. “And who’s leaving them for you at the break-ins, Draco?”

Draco bites his lip. He meets Harry’s eyes and swallows. His voice is deep and rough, questioning. “I think...you.”

***

The fourth gift was the one Harry was most excited about, really. Though all of them but the first had been designed with Draco specifically in mind, this was the one that — if Harry was honest with himself — had been his longest-running fantasy about Draco, which began way back when he was still nothing but Malfoy. But self-examination is not an entirely comfortable thing and so Harry decided to overlook it until later, when he had time to think more on the subject.

His own eagerness distracting him, Harry placed the silver box in a too-easily discovered spot: right beside the large snake cage in which a heavily pregnant rosy boa lived. She’d informed him that she liked how bright it was and Harry smiled at her hastily before moving away to begin his rounds of checking the wards — which were up, as usual. None of the magical pets had been disturbed — it was a simple grab for gold, this time — and Harry tried to lose himself in the work, keeping one eye on the owner of the place in case he decided to check on the boa.

Draco rounded with him, making notes and casting checks over the wards and the till and the safe under the counter — heavily warded as well, and also emptied of everything. He was right beside Harry when they reached the snakes, his deceptively slender shoulders fixing in place to become unyieldingly tight. 

“What is it?” Harry urged when Draco said nothing.

“Number four.”

Harry followed the jerk of Draco’s chin. He charmed his hands and picked up the box, then swiftly made a show of checking it for traps before opening it. 

The bracelets were a high-polished platinum. They were finely wrought; intricately engraved with peacock feathers and vines, and inlaid with tiny, smoky emeralds. When Harry commissioned them, he’d wanted something that Draco could perhaps wear when they went out — if they were able to agree on an arrangement, of course. Their relationship has been too fraught with turmoil, too honed on mutual loathing before they’d started working together, for Harry to believe it could be as simple as he hopes. 

Still. He’d wanted something nice, easily shown in public. Something that Draco would be able to look at when they were complimented, and know the truth.

“Jewelry,” Draco said, breathless, unblinking. He reached out, ghosting his fingertips over the surface curve of metal.

“It looks like someone is going courting,” Harry agreed. “You don’t suppose the thieves are targeting someone specific, linked to all of the crime scenes?”

“No,” Draco said flatly. “I don’t.”

Harry smiled. He charmed Draco’s hands, and passed the bracelets over so Draco could look at them more closely which — if his hungry expression were to be believed — he very much wanted to do. Draco plucked one out of the flat, square box and held it up close to his face. 

“What _do_ you think, then?” Harry asked. 

“I think these are real,” Draco said, voice soft, thumb brushing over the stones. He turned the bracelet reverently in his hands, doing nothing to hide his admiration for the work. “And I think—”

“Yes?”

Draco looked up. Something in his face spoke of a deep need that Harry identified with; one that, until recently, Harry had no real hopes of satisfying. “I think if someone is going to all the trouble of leaving these, they very much want to get caught,” he said, stroking them again.

“Or maybe they want to do the catching,” Harry suggested, euphoric.

“Why?”

Harry grinned. Shrugged. “How would I know?”

***

Harry barely has time for a simple, “Unward your flat for me tonight. Six o’clock,” before the owner of the shop scurries over, her parchment filled with missing items and till counts for the week. Draco doesn’t acknowledge Harry’s order in any way, doesn’t even nod, but Harry feels not a flicker of apprehension as they proceed back to the Ministry and work on their case files.

The air between them stays charged, quietly electric, while they go over the different cases together, passing ideas back and forth between them. Draco lays stretched out on their small sofa, knees bent and calves dangling over one arm; his robes are open to reveal a light blue button-down under a loosened navy tie. Harry watches him hover a Snitch in the air with his wand, and his craving goes so deep that he barely remembers what it felt like before he’d considered Draco an option. 

It’s near five when the case breaks, and even the anti-climax of discovering that it was two professional Warding companies trading off petty heists does nothing to assuage the intensity of Harry’s thirst. They fill out warrant applications, as per usual, and then Draco does something he’s never done in the years he and Harry have been working together — he goes home before finishing a case.

It is ten to six, and Harry nods at him approvingly when Draco accidentally glances his way upon taking his leave. His face is impassive, but Harry feels a rush of pure adrenaline.

He waits until Draco has vacated the room, then turns to Robards. “I think the Junior Aurors are capable of making the arrests.”

“Not you too,” Robards says, a smile twitching under his moustache. 

“Afraid so, sir. I need to get home. Besides, it’ll be good for them,” Harry says easily.

Robards gives a put-upon sigh but nods, rubbing distractedly at his chin with his forefinger. “Go on, get out of here, then,” he says at last. “You and Malfoy both deserve a break, I suppose.”

Harry tips his head in thanks and excuses himself. He stops by his and Draco’s office for a few minutes, then ambles to the Apparition point. For a single second — just one — he allows himself to contemplate the Splinching he’ll suffer if Draco hasn’t changed his ward settings to allow Harry direct entrance into his home. But then he closes his eyes and pictures Draco’s warm living room, his sofa upholstered in Italian silk, the fireplace big enough to roast a pig in. 

The Apparition is as clean as it’s ever been; Harry lands with a quiet thump against Draco’s polished-wood floors. Draco lounges on the sofa, one long leg crossed over the other, and if not for cords of his throat standing out, and the subtle tremble of his hands as he takes a sip of his drink, he would look all for the world like nothing more than a bored, spoiled aristocrat, waiting to be served.

But Harry knows better, now.

“My drink?” Harry asks. 

Draco nods to the small side bar at the edge of the room, where a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey waits. Harry picks it up, breathing in the sharp fumes before taking a swallow. He considers sitting next to Draco on the sofa, but chooses a high-backed side chair across from him, instead. He rests his drink on his knee and leans back, widening his thighs and smiling when Draco’s gaze follows the movement.

“Are you hard?” 

Draco blinks, starts, but recovers immediately. “Yes.”

“Show me,” Harry says. Straightforward is the best way to be now, he thinks.

Draco narrows his eyes but sets down his glass and stands. With no artifice, he undresses, almost mechanically, as if preparing to take a shower. His tie and shirt are the first to go, revealing his lithe frame. Harry has seen him shirtless plenty of times — in training, in the locker room with a towel around his waist, once after a potions spill — but now all of that pale skin, still streaked with the faint remnants of scars — is on display for _him_ , and Harry leans back lazily to enjoy the view. Draco’s shoes and socks are next, followed by his trousers and pants, and he stands still after setting his clothing aside, letting Harry look his fill. His cock is fully hard, as he’d said, lovely and slender and long, jutting out from the nest of golden curls at his groin. It’s flushed a deep pink and the foreskin has retracted tight around the head, which peaks out out, glistening damply. His balls are heavy beneath, long legs toned and dusted with nearly invisible blond hair. Harry settles deeper in his chair and takes another sip of his drink, savouring the way the burn snakes down to warm his belly. 

“Have a seat,” Harry says.

“Really?” Draco makes a face — presumably objecting to the idea of sitting with his bare arse on his thousand-galleon sofa like a caveman would — but he moves to obey. He leaves his legs uncrossed, his hands at his sides. 

“We should talk.”

“Whatever about?” Draco asks with a smirk.

Harry laughs. “You have questions.”

“As observant as ever, I see,” Draco says, but there’s a tentative smile crinkling the corner of his eyes.

“How long have you suspected?”

“I thought these were my questions,” Draco mutters, frowning.

“Draco,” Harry says warningly.

He sighs. “Since the blindfold. I wasn’t sure until the bracelets, though.”

“What did the blindfold show you?” Harry asks curiously. He’d had it charmed to blend the fantasies of the intended and the owner, but to keep them universal enough that anyone else who wore it would not be distracted by specificity.

“Me, sucking your cock.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “What makes you think it was mine?”

Draco shrugs. “It just… _was_ ,” he says.

Harry observes him for a moment; his open pose; his calm, almost placid expression. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been with a Dom.”

“Is that a problem?” His shoulders flex, tensing slightly.

“The opposite, in fact,” Harry says, matter-of-fact. “I just wished I’d known sooner. I’ve never seen you at any of the clubs. I assume you would have Glamoured, like I do, but I’ve no doubt we would have recognised each other anyway.”

“It’s impossible to Glamour this,” Draco says, rotating his forearm to display his Mark. He runs a hand over it, grimacing. “I’ve had to...guess, based on personality.”

“That can be deceiving,” Harry agrees.

“Can’t it, though?” Draco’s eyes burn into his, and he slants a smile at him.

“Have you decided, then?” Harry asks, getting to the real question. “About me?”

“Potter, I decided I would sub for you before I knew what the bloody fuck it was,” Draco says with a loud exhale. Harry’s startled by the honesty, by the sheer _longing_ in Draco’s tone, and yet somehow… not. He nods, and Draco continues, “Only I never thought _you_ would be...like that. Like me.”

“It makes sense if you think about it,” Harry says mildly, not offended by the way Draco chuckles. Because it _does_ make sense, but it’s a little funny, too.

“I’ve done nothing but, for the last few weeks,” Draco admits. “What else?”

“Exclusivity,” Harry says.

“Yes.”

“Pain play?”

Draco’s cheeks redden. “Yes. To a degree. If you like, as well.”

“I can do — can _like_ — all of it,” Harry tells him. He reaches down and shifts his cock, which is tenting the front of his trousers. The adjustment becomes a slow massage, and Harry takes note of the way Draco’s eyes zero in on it. Draco purses his lips; hesitates. “It’s _okay_ , Draco,” Harry continues, softening his voice. “We can do as much or as little as you like.”

“You went to a lot of trouble. To orchestrate this. To...seduce me, when you didn’t have to,” Draco says, voice low and shaky. Harry’s chest aches with the sweetness of his surrender, his pride forcibly pushed aside to accept what he knows what Harry can give him. “I’d like to— please you,” he says, then mutters, “Merlin help me.”

Harry smiles. “You have been. You do.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “What are your boundaries?”

“Nothing at work. Or elsewhere,” he says immediately. At Harry’s surprise, he waves a sheepish hand. “I mean — this is separate from that. The way I am, the way you are.” He swallows, looking at Harry closely, and Harry’s smile broadens. 

“I wouldn’t have given you the bracelets if I was looking for a submissive, only,” Harry says. “I like that you’re a prick.” He snorts. “Much to my own dismay.”

The smile Draco gives him is charmingly crooked. “Then I can _definitely_ please you there. Get the bloody fuck out of my flat, Potter.”

Harry laughs, but when he speaks it’s in a tone of low command. “Get on your knees, Draco.”

Draco stills, eyes catching Harry’s for a split second before he slides forward off the sofa and gracefully to his knees. He sits back against his heels, cock bobbing for a moment before settling heavily over his balls. “Now?” he asks.

“Now,” Harry says. “Take down your hair.”

Reaching up slowly, Draco unties the bit of elastic holding his hair into its bun. It slips loose, and he shakes his head, letting it settle against his shoulders like a curtain of silk. He tucks it behind his ears, then straightens, placing his palms back on his thighs. 

“Where are the gifts?” Harry asks. He tosses back the rest of his drink, wincing, and sets the tumbler aside. He stands, steadily disrobing and draping each piece of clothing over the arm of the chair he’d been occupying. Draco stares up at him, mouth open.

“They’re— Harry, _why_?” he asks on a rush. Harry raises an eyebrow in the act of toeing off his sock. 

“The first one was an accident,” he explains. “I’d had the ring set commissioned because I had my eye on a sub who seemed to enjoy them. It fell out of the pocket of my robes and you saw it,” he says. He finishes with his sock and then pads, barefoot, over to Draco. He tilts up Draco’s chin. “And I finally saw you. I’d stayed away because—”

Draco shudders, lowering his eyes. His hair, gleaming, shields his face from Harry’s view but that’s quite all right, because it won’t stay that way for long. 

“They’re on the bookshelf,” Draco murmurs, in answer to his previous question. “Behind you.”

Harry combs his fingers through Draco’s hair the way he’s wanted to for longer than he cares to admit. It’s soft, silky; cool to the touch. He pinches a lock and rubs it between his fingers, letting it sift out and fall to the top of Draco’s shoulder, and Harry follows it with his hand, stroking the lean muscle under Draco’s skin. Draco’s breath hitches, but he remains quiet.

Harry turns, unbuckling his belt and letting it hang open as he goes. The boxes are spread in a row on the uppermost shelf, just above eye level, and the brings them down one by one to the shelf below it, flicking them open with one hand while his other unbuttons and unzips his trousers.

He peruses his options for a moment. They’d have more to work with if he’d invited Draco to his flat — but the treasures here have at least been _designed_ for him. All but— 

Grinning, Harry lifts out the bit of black leather, and makes a few other choices. The plug will come in handy soon, and the blindfold, but he’d much rather Draco see him tonight. He faces Draco again, then studies the layout of the room, gratified to find that it’s as he remembers it being the one and only time he visited to drop off some files. Draco had invited him to stay for a glass of wine, which had turned into a shared bottle, and it had been the first time Harry had wondered if he perhaps wasn't the only one who'd felt the pull of attraction between them.

Shoving down his trousers and briefs, Harry walks back over to Draco. His cock is stiff, leaking, and if he hadn’t spared a few minutes to wank before coming, his control might be in danger of slipping. Just _looking_ at Draco, kneeling, head bowed, breath light and shallow, _alarms_ Harry for the amount of sheer, savage lust that streaks through him. 

“Look at me.”

Obediently, Draco lifts his head, hair falling away from his face. His eyes are turbulent, stormy-dark.

“Give me your wrists,” Harry says. He steps closer, so the swollen tip of his prick brushes against Draco’s chin. It leaves a gleaming smear of moisture, and Draco shudders again, moaning low and ragged, his mouth opening impatiently as he angles his head lower to try to catch Harry’s cock with his lips.

“ _No,_ ” Harry warns, and though a soft whine escapes Draco’s throat, his lips close. He raises his arms over his head, proffering his wrists to Harry. Harry slides a bracelet over each hand, letting them settle over Draco’s wrists. He turns Draco’s hands palm-up and kisses them lightly; mostly for the chance to rub his cock against Draco’s face again. This time it catches on his lower lip; it presses against his cheek, and Draco’s breath gets loud and broken.  
Harry steps away. “Stand up.”

Draco lowers his arms and pushes off the floor with one hand, levering himself up, eyes still trained on Harry. Harry cocks his head, then sinks to his knees with a wicked smile. 

“Harry,” Draco breathes; an entreaty — but for what, Harry doesn’t know; nor does he care, really. He takes a few seconds to admire Draco’s cock before grasping it firmly, smoothing back the velvety foreskin over the shaft to expose the sensitive glans. 

Without preamble, Harry opens his mouth and takes it in, sucking Draco down to the root. Draco makes a delightful choking noise, his hand falling to Harry’s hair and clenching, but his hips don’t move an inch. Harry drags his mouth over Draco’s cock, his tongue sliding wetly over the pulsing vein underneath on each deep stroke. He stiffens it to a point, pressing it into the slit to taste the salty bead of moisture collected there before swirling it around the head and pulling off.

“Good,” he says appreciatively. He sits back more comfortably, settling on his heels the way Draco had, and briskly begins working the loops of leather over Draco’s cock and balls, sliding the largest strap over Draco’s stiff shaft to his groin, then lifting his balls to carefully fit them in as well. The second loop dangles from beneath Draco’s suddenly flushed sac, and Harry lifts them again, guiding it around them. The last loop, Harry releases with a muttered charm, then winds it around the base of Draco’s cock, murmuring again and watching it seal itself closed, tightening under Harry’s command until Draco’s cock is a ruddy pink from root to tip. 

“You look delicious,” Harry says. He looks up to gauge Draco’s face; he’s worrying his lower lip between his teeth, face tight with restraint. “Anything I can’t do?” Harry asks again.

“No blood play,” Draco says throatily. “The standard hard limits.”

Harry nods and stands. He retrieves another item from its box. “No, I think tonight is for getting to know each other. And I wouldn’t, anyway,” he says. Conversationally, as he grabs his wand and taps the object, he asks, “How often have you done this? Subbed.”

“Twice,” Draco says. At Harry's interested nod, he elaborates, “The first was just one night. The second lasted a few months. Like I said, it's difficult to find what you want when you're… Me.”

“And what is it you want?” Harry murmurs, his mouth brushing the shell of Draco's ear. He nips it between his teeth, grazing them lower to lick the lobe, his hands sliding between their bodies.

“ _You,_ ” Draco says with a shaky whisper. The confession comes out painful and angry, like a wound that’s been prodded until it’s opened up again, and Harry leans back a little to study him.

“And can you? Obey me,” he clarifies gently. “After everything? What we were to each other?” He allows his fingers to skim over Draco's scars; it makes his cock twitch to touch those marks he's left on Draco's otherwise flawless skin — _finally,_ after years of shame for having created them, he can look at them anew — but it's entirely possible Draco won't be able to bear the reminder. If so, it's better to learn it now. 

Draco gives a stifled sigh and reaches up without permission to press Harry's hand flat against his chest. “I-.” He licks his lips. “I can,” he says. “I _want to._ ”

“ _Good_ ,” Harry purrs, leaning in to reward Draco with a bite to the throat that leaves behind the impression of his teeth. He reaches for Draco's cock and Draco’s head falls back with a lascivious groan as Harry applies the the cocksucking toy he’d had specially made with Draco in mind. It slides up his prick smoothly, covering it, and seals around the base before seeming to vanish. If one were to look closely — and Harry does, to make sure it’s working — they would see the smooth undulations of Draco’s prick being worked at a slow speed inside the toy, the subtle shudder and pull of the suck.

“Head up,” Harry orders him sharply. Draco jerks, hands fisted at his sides, and lifts his head with some effort. His teeth are clenched.

“That’s your mouth,” Draco croaks.

“Mmhmm,” Harry says, pleased he’d noticed. He clears his throat, winding a hand around Draco’s hip and shuffling him closer. “Do not touch yourself. Do you understand me?”

Draco’s throat works silently for a moment. There’s the bite of challenge in his eyes, of objection; already the toy is drawing him closer to climax. But then his eyes drop; they land on Harry’s mouth. He nods.

“Green, Yellow, Red?” Harry asks. “Or do you have something specific? You can speak,” he adds, mostly to point out that Draco didn’t have leave to, before. It’s okay; they have time to learn each other. He’s magnificent, especially for someone who’s only subbed twice before, and Harry isn't foolish enough to reprimand him for disobedience, when they haven't fully discussed expectations yet.

“That’s— yes,” Draco says. His gaze is still on Harry’s mouth.

“Would you like to touch me?” 

“Yes,” Draco rasps, licking his lips.

“Would you like to suck my cock, Draco?”

Draco whines, nodding, his hips starting to move along with whatever sensations he’s feeling around his prick; tiny, seeking rolls. His eyes fall closed. Harry smirks, then whispers a charm which causes the toy to speed up, its friction to grow tight and frantic over Draco, and Draco bucks, a hand shooting out to clamp against Harry’s waist. Harry chuckles, then pries Draco’s hand off of him.

“I asked you a question,” he says lightly.

“I- fuck. _Yes,_ ” Draco says. Harry returns the speed of the toy to its former setting and Draco sighs, body relaxing a touch. He opens his eyes. “Please.”

“In a minute,” Harry says. His hand over Draco’s hip slides around to cup his arse, to palm one cheek gently and pull him closer, fitting their bodies together. His cock throbs pleasantly, trapped against Draco’s, and his fingers slip into the crevice of Draco’s buttocks. He dips his head; flicks his tongue out over Draco’s lower lip. “I want you to kiss me,” he says.

Draco surges forward with such immediacy, Harry barely has time to process that it came from his own order. Perhaps it didn’t, but if that’s the case, Harry’s surprisingly okay with it — with Draco’s desire to kiss him, and the idea that he was simply _waiting_ for the go-ahead. In fact, Harry thinks — a bit dizzily as he sinks his tongue into Draco’s mouth — he might drop that rule entirely with Draco. He rather likes the idea that Draco will kiss him anytime he wishes.

He likes it so much, in fact, that he allows himself to get lost in it for a few luxurious minutes — Draco’s greedy mouth against his, his tongue sliding against Harry’s, the way his lips soften and open under his when Harry cups the back of his head and slants his mouth harder over Draco’s. He grinds against Draco, feeling the jerk of Draco’s prick against his own, the crisp spring of his pubic hair catching against Harry’s foreskin. Draco’s untempered enthusiasm over being kissed like this — over being _taken_ — winds Harry so tight, he gasps into Draco’s mouth, fingers biting deeply into the muscles of Draco’s clenched buttocks as he hauls him flush and thrusts against him. One of Draco’s legs comes up to wrap around the back of Harry’s knee in silent entreaty, and Harry finally wrenches his mouth away, chest heaving. Draco rocks back onto his heels, looking just as dazed as he did when Harry sucked his cock deep — more, perhaps.

Kissing. He likes kissing, or at least getting kissed by _Harry._ The ice-prince of the Aurors looks as though he’s ready to fall over, and Harry files the information away for the future. His own lips are swollen and tingly; he doesn’t feel too steady, himself.

“One day,” he says, voice gravelly, “I’d like to call you ‘pet.’ To call you, ‘love.’” Draco stares at him with a heavy-lidded gaze; he peels arms away from where they’ve wrapped around Harry’s shoulders, looking as though it pains him to do so. “Would you like to be called those things?”

Draco’s eyes flare hot. “Yes,” he says. Then, almost too-quietly, adds, “Sir.”

Hissing, Harry indulges in another brief rut against Draco’s sinewy form. He releases Draco, then applies pressure to the top of his shoulder until Draco sinks effortlessly back down onto his knees. He takes the the base of his cock between his forefinger and thumb and murmurs, “Open.”

Draco’s jaw unclenches; his lips — slick and plump from Harry’s kiss — part expectantly. Harry drags the the tip of his cock over Draco’s wet lower lip a few times and hears a stifled growl of frustration in return. He grins, a little meanly, then slides his fingers through Draco’s hair to knot his hand there firmly, pushing his cock forward without warning, near down to the base. He feels a cough, a small gag of adjustment, and then Draco relaxes his throat dutifully, eyes wide and straining upward to look at Harry as Harry begins an unfaltering rhythm of slow, deep thrusts. Draco’s mouth is every fucking wet dream Harry’s ever had; he never stops moving his tongue, even when the crown of Harry’s cock is lodged in his sinfully tight throat. He breathes in and out through his nose with steady, practiced pulls for oxygen each time Harry rears back, then gulps obediently, mouth hot and sucking, cheeks hollowed under the cutting line of his cheekbone, when Harry snaps his hips forward to fuck into his throat. Over and over — until tears streak out of the corners of his unblinking eyes, his gag reflex teased mercilessly — Draco acquiesces, issuing soft moans that vibrate deliciously around Harry’s prick. Harry watches him through foggy, crooked glasses, his balls drawing up tight to his body. He reaches down and cups them, under Draco’s chin, giving them light little tugs and rasping fingers over the thin, sensitive skin, and then feels Draco’s hands, tentative, pressing flat against the fronts of his thighs. Harry nods, pulling his hand off. “Yeah,” he grits out, “do it.”

Draco’s hand replaces his, rolling his balls lightly and giving them little squeezes as he pulls them away from Harry’s body. It’s maddeningly good, decadent; the wet suction around his cock, Draco’s masterful palm, coaxing Harry’s climax to the surface. He comes with a low groan, hand tangled in all of that gorgeous white-blond hair to keep Draco’s head from moving back as he pumps his orgasm into the depths of Draco’s greedily swallowing throat in long pulses. He stands there for a moment, cock softening in Draco’s mouth, and swipes away the tracks of moisture on Draco’s cheeks before pulling out. Draco inhales generously, panting. His cock jerks repeatedly, tiny little movements, and has flushed deep red from root to tip. 

“Would you like to come?” he asks with a warm laugh, petting Draco’s hair back from his face. 

“Please, yes, please, I need—” Draco babbles rawly, still catching his breath. He clears his throat with a small wince, but there’s a gorgeously frantic light in his eyes. They are hazy with partially fulfilled satisfaction, and he looks up at Harry in silent supplication.

“No,” Harry says simply, then flicks his wand toward the cock-ring. It releases all at once, unlooping itself from around Draco’s swollen shaft and balls, and dropping to the ground. Draco curls forward, fingers clawing tight against his thighs; he moans, shoulders coming in, every muscle going taut while he fights his body’s instinctive response to the sudden release of binding around his overstimulated prick. Harry watches, not really expecting him to be able to resist, but Draco Malfoy is nothing if not notoriously stubborn and he slowly stiffens, face etched with agonised pleasure as he straightens again, cock still hard and leaking. 

Taking pity on him — or perhaps acting out of sheer admiration for his fortitude — Harry utters the charm that stops the suction on the toy. Draco’s shoulders sag, and he exhales loudly.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, sounding only a little resentful. His cheeks are bright red.

“You’re welcome,” Harry teases. Draco casts him a doubtful look that eases at Harry’s smile; his face relaxes. Harry glances at the cocksucking toy, visible again. “Go ahead and remove it. Careful, now,” he cautions when Draco’s hand strays, too-eagerly, to his prick. He hesitates, then carefully eases the apparatus down his shaft to remove it, eyes fluttering shut, and settles back on his heels again.

“You haven’t asked about the bracelets,” Harry says when Draco stays silent.

Diverted from whatever internal battle he’s still fighting over retaining control, Draco draws in a ragged breath and meets his eyes. “I assumed they were your way of- of…”

Harry can see it on the tip of his tongue. _Asking me_ , Draco wants to say. _Seducing me. Courting me to be your sub_. Harry nods. “They were.”

“But?” Draco asks, looking at them curiously. They jostle over his wrists, down his forearms a few inches, and back. 

“No but.” The correction comes out quiet; warm. “Just an ‘and.’ Stand up.” He pauses as he waits for Draco to comply, then says, “ _Restibus descendentes._ ”

The ropes unfurl, in a way that puts _Incarcerous_ to shame. They glow, catching the light of the emeralds and platinum, green and silver streaks of shimmery material winding again and again around Draco’s wrists, binding them together, and braiding in front of him in an impressive display of light. Harry twitches his fingers at them and the long, dangling edges shoot up, wrapping securely around two exposed wooden beams in Draco’s ceiling. Draco makes an alarmed sound as arms come up, spreading wide and high, his shoulders flexing beautifully. Harry circles him, twirling his wand so the restraints tighten just enough to keep him in place. He ensures with a practiced eye that Draco’s feet stay planted, that the binding around his wrists isn’t cutting off his circulation. Not that they would; the charms inlaid in the bracelets cost ten times what the metal and the stones did; there are safety precautions that measure heart rate and blood flow and comfort, and are preset to release at the word “red.”

After his initial noise, Draco falls silent; though his body retains its tension, it’s gone strangely boneless in that way that Harry recognises from the clubs, when a sub’s endorphins are starting to flood their system. He feels a surge of— of _affection,_ unique and separate from everything else, from his own inclinations and sexual desires; separate from Draco’s ability to meet them. For a second Harry wonders why he never paused in his pursuit of Draco once he’d realised they shared the same tastes — at the risk of their hard-earned friendship, even — but he thinks this affection, so foreign and familiar at once, might be the reason. 

He continues around Draco until he’s behind him again, admiring the line of his back and dip of his slender spine, the curve of his arse. He steps close, rubbing his softened cock against the shadow of Draco’s crevice, and Draco twitches slightly, twisting his head to the side to meet Harry’s eyes.

“Do you want to know what _else_ they do?” Harry says into his ear, then kisses the line of his jaw. He darts his tongue out, tasting the salt of Draco’s sweat, and nuzzles against him, tucking his face into the curve of Draco’s neck to take little sucking bites at the skin there. Draco shudders; he cants his arse backward subtly.

“Harry,” he whispers brokenly.

“ _Dominus voluptatem,_ ” Harry says, and when his hand lands on Draco’s waist, Draco moans, loud and unapologetically. Harry grins against his neck. “When you wear those bracelets — when I say that spell — your pleasure will increase wherever my fingers touch you. For as long as you’re mine. I’m told it’s like having an orgasm elsewhere on the body, but as the charm is designed for a submissive, I haven’t had the occasion to check. What you you think?” He runs his hand over Draco’s stomach, rubbing at the soft trail of hair that leads from his belly-button to his groin. The muscles in Draco’s stomach jump wherever Harry’s fingers come into contact.

“P-please,” Draco stutters out with a whimper. “I’ll come.”

Harry _tsk_ ’s under his breath. “It _should_ feel like you already are. I’ll have to take them in,” he starts to joke, but Draco’s breathless plea cuts him off.

“No, no, please, really I’m going to come, please— _Please,_ ” he gets out on one breath, arse rubbing back sinuously over Harry’s thickening cock. 

“No,” Harry says in a hard voice. “You’re not.”

Draco sucks in a ragged breath. His eyes open. “No,” he agrees shakily. “I won’t.”

Harry kisses him, unable to help himself. Draco arms are splayed out and bound, his body wound tight with long-repressed release, but he _melts_ into Harry, opening his mouth and allowing Harry entrance with his tongue. Harry pours himself into the kiss — his years of fascination, his admiration, his delight — and touches Draco’s jaw with a fingertip when he pulls away. Draco whines, low and harsh, jaw bunching under Harry’s touch. 

Then Harry gently kicks apart Draco’s knees, widening his stance as far as looks comfortable, and Draco lets his head drop forward with a soft sob of relief — though, of course, Harry doesn’t plan on delivering that, quite yet. He trails kisses down the length of Draco’s spine, nipping at his flank as he continues lower, and drags his tongue out when he reaches crease of Draco’s buttocks. He pries them apart with his hands and Draco moans again, trembling just at Harry’s fingers, cheeks clenching against Harry’s hands. Harry murmurs a cleansing charm, glancing up. Draco doesn’t even seem to notice; his toes curl against the hardwood floor; his hips undulate back and forth. His ankles rotate as he tries to scoot his legs out even more to aid Harry in his quest, and Harry chuckles quietly. He flattens his tongue and laps over Draco’s crease, from perineum to the top of his buttocks; firm and steady licks. 

“You said you would have subbed for me before you knew what that was,” Harry says, pulling one hand off Draco’s arse cheek to fondle his own cock — which is, unbelievably, getting impatient again.

“ _Yes,_ ” Draco pants. “ _Please_ ”

Harry applies his mouth again, focusing this time on Draco’s rim, which flutters and clenches even as it softens against his ministrations. The cleaning charm makes everything a little too bland, but there’s the tantalising taste of Draco underneath, of masculine sweat and skin, and Harry groans in appreciation as he works his tongue inside him, prodding the stubborn ring of muscle to loosen it up. He pulls away and Draco grunts in surprise. 

“Since when?” Harry asks. He massages Draco’s arse cheeks with both hands, and the charm must still be holding steady because Draco rises up a little on his toes, the backs of his thighs quivering with tension. “Don’t come,” Harry adds as he waits, because he feels like Draco could use the reminder.

“F-fifth year,” Draco manages.

“Eighth for me, though I had some highly suspicious dreams about you in fourth,” Harry tells him, then firmly latches his lips around Draco’s spit-slickened whorl and starts to suck. Draco cries out, spine bowing as he works his arse toward the sensation. His hands, Harry can see when he glances up, are twisting into the charmed ropes, curling the bit of slack left around his fingers. Harry fucks into Draco with his tongue mercilessly, snaking a hand between his straining thighs to thread his fingers through the thatch of hair that surrounds his bobbing prick. He carefully makes sure not to touch it with his fingers, but feels it glance damply off his knuckles as Draco keens sharply, then begins a chant of hoarse _please_ ’s, begging with such unbridled erotisism that Harry’s cock gives an urgent throb. Draco rides his face, words fading into an unrelenting moan as Harry licks into him, curling his tongue past Draco’s swollen rim. He adds a finger alongside it, slipping the digit farther than his tongue can go and pumping it, and continues to sloppily eat Draco open. 

“I need— I need—” Draco finally wheezes out on a dry sob. “Oh, _god_ , Potter, _please_.” Harry smiles around his persistently working tongue; it’s getting tired, and his jaw too, but he’s never before heard someone make a sound that could rush straight to his cock before, never before _wanted_ to take apart a sub so thoroughly. And it could very well have to do with it being _Draco_ , the snotty little boy he’d hated and obsessed over, who’d turned into the surprisingly decent man Harry had never thought he could touch, but it doesn’t really matter — not when Draco is writhing above him, refusing to say _yellow_ or _red_ , though his cock and balls have got to be positively aching by now. 

He pulls his hand off Draco’s groin, his mouth away from his greedily twitching arse; he rubs the saliva from his chin off onto Draco’s buttock. Corkscrewing his fingertip, he brushes it lightly over Draco’s prostate, gleeful when Draco’s whole body jerks in response. He does it again, rising to his feet breathlessly, and slips another in alongside the first. Spit isn’t the best lubricant; the friction can’t be entirely pleasant, but as he eyes the lean muscles rippling in Draco’s splayed biceps, in his shoulders, he’s confident that Draco doesn’t have any objection to this kind of pain mixed in with his pleasure. 

Harry fits his body against Draco’s back again, accelerating the tempo of his thrusting fingers. He gives Draco’s shoulder a bite, then rests his chin on it. “Do you want to come?”

Draco wobbles his neck in a feeble attempt of a nod, too focused to do anything but simply endure the onslaught of pleasure from Harry’s charmed fingers working his arsehole pliant. Harry nudges Draco’s hair aside with his chin to breathe hot against his ear. 

“I’m going to keep you, after this,” he whispers. “Just you see if I don’t, Malfoy. You’re going to be finding silver boxes so often you’ll need to purchase wizarding space just to have a place to keep them all.” He punctuates his point with a deep drive forward of his fingers, spreading them out against the clenching walls of Draco’s arse, and then says, “Come for me, Draco.”

Harry expects it to be loud, when it happens — after all this time — but even Draco’s heaving, broken breaths go strangely silent. His body stops shivering; it turns rigid, and Harry peers over Draco’s shoulder, heart thundering at the sight that greets him. Draco’s cock bobs at a ninety-degree angle from his body, jerking in the air as long ropes of spunk pulse out to splatter against his gleaming floors. Harry halts the pump of his fingers in favour of pressing them directly over that cluster of nerves hidden deep inside Draco. He slips a hand over Draco’s hip and grasps his cock, simply holding it steady while he comes, and _this_ finally snaps Draco out of his silence; he cries out Harry’s name, over and over, rocking his hips forward into Harry’s fist. 

When it’s over, he sags, wrists straining against the ropes. They loosen automatically, drifting down from the rafters, and Draco starts to crumple at the knee before he rights himself. Harry removes his fingers from him and wraps his arm around Draco’s waist, pressing their bodies tight together. Draco’s white-blond hair tickles his face as Harry murmurs a cushioning charm against the hardwood floor and guides him to his hands and knees. He Summons the tube of lubricant he brought with him and thumbs the top open, squirting it out onto his fingertips and slathering it over his ready cock. 

“Colour?” he checks softly, tossing the tube aside.

“G-green,” Draco barely says, the word coming out thick and dazed from an overabundance of pleasure. 

“Good.” Harry gusts out a breath, spreading Draco’s thighs a bit more with one of his own, and settles behind him, lining his cock up. Draco takes him easily enough, bearing down against him as Harry presses forward with a slow, easy momentum. Draco groans, tilting his hips up and back, and the adjusted angle allows Harry sink in fully, bottoming out inside Draco, his pelvis pressed flush with Draco’s arse cheeks. The walls of his arse are sinfully tight around Harry’s cock, silky with expensive lube, and Harry waits for a moment, fingers biting into Draco’s hip. He skates a palm up Draco’s back and gathers Draco’s hair, loose around his shoulders, wrapping it around his fist and wrist the way he’s imagined for so long. “Fuck yourself on my cock,” he orders softly.

Draco makes a small sound of tired surprise before complying. He rolls his hips forward, then back, bouncing his arse against Harry almost timidly at first, but faster as he works out a good rhythm. Harry pulls his hair back, lifting Draco’s throat in an arch, and Draco pants, bucking his hips backward. Harry watches, breath hitching as Draco’s frantically working hips slide Harry’s cock in and out of his hole, and he bows over him, reaching around again to stroke Draco’s foreskin back with his fingertips. Draco jolts forward into the touch with a startled cry, and Harry’s cock pops out; Harry gives a strained laugh, then realigns himself, shoving back in with one smooth push. 

“Watch it,” he chides. He touches Draco’s cock again, and Draco mumbles something, grinding his hips back to take Harry’s cock deeper. His cock is stiffening rapidly under Harry’s touch.

“What was that?” Harry asks breathlessly, finally giving in to the need to participate. He rocks his hips in time with Draco’s, shoving forward when Draco presses back, and they both let out a groan.

“Can I—”

“Yes, you can,” Harry tells him, flushed and pleased and so turned on he can barely see straight. He tugs harder on Draco’s hair, tugs harder on his cock, and fucks into him with increasing abandon, Draco’s hole still contracting occasionally around Harry’s prick with the lingering effects of his recent orgasm. Draco’s prick has lengthened to full hardness, the tip growing as slippery as his arse is, and — though it can’t be entirely comfortable to come twice in close succession — Harry continues to to work Draco’s shaft with his touch, pinching the head of his prick to coax out more precome, then curling his fingers around it to drag his foreskin back and forth. His pounds his own cock deep into Draco, gasping with the effort to hold back, keeping Draco stationary with the hand held tight in his hair as he rides him. Then Draco arches, sooner than Harry would have guessed was possible; his prick pumps into Harry’s hand, and he comes again — fast, coating Harry’s fist with sticky stripes of fluid. He moans wantonly, and Harry releases his cock to grab Draco’s hip with a steadying hand as his hips piston ruthlessly, Draco’s arsehole fluttering around his prick, pulsating wet and hot and tight. Harry’s palm — itching for a fucking _month_ — comes down of its own accord with a ringing _smack_ against Draco’s buttock, then again and again, his balls drawing up painfully. Draco groans roughly; he nods as much as he’s able, hair still caught in Harry’s hand, and Harry plows into him, grinding as deep as he can go. His climax hits him hard, blurring the edges of his vision as he spills into Draco, flooding his channel with spunk. Harry spanks him again, the heat in his palm at the contact — and Draco’s babbling, approving moan — a direct lance of sensation to his cock as the white hot tension coiled in his spine comes tearing out of him. 

He slumps heavily over Draco for a moment, sucking in long, harsh breaths before he’s able to pry himself up and away, to pull his hand from Draco’s tangled hair. His body is hot, slick with sweat and come, replete — maybe for the first time in his whole goddamned life. Draco sinks forward, arms sliding out until his cheek rests against the floor. Harry strokes the curve of his arse, admiring the darkening, hand-shaped bloom of red. At Draco’s low, drugged moan, Harry remembers the charm and incants a reversal, returning his touch to normal; tender, now, and no longer able to persuade pleasure to the surface with a single stroke. Draco’s eyes blink up at him, glazed and farway. Harry lies next to him, on his side, idly playing with the messy strands of Draco’s hair. He’ll brush it while Draco sleeps, he thinks.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Mm.”

Harry smiles faintly; it’s more of an answer than he thought he’d get. Draco’s face is utterly relaxed, softer than Harry has ever seen it, radiant and lit up and brighter than any shimmering present Harry could ever offer him. He rubs the backs of his knuckles over Draco’s cheek, down the line of his jaw, and Draco’s eyelids close heavily. There’s a tiny crease of an answering smile, near the corner of his mouth.

Harry kisses it.

***

The startled jerk of Draco’s body, enfolded in his arms, wakes him. Harry sits up; he leans over and pulls a glass of water from Draco’s nightstand, handing it over. Draco sluggishly takes it, and Harry watches him for any lingering shakiness or unpleasant side effects, but other than a foggy, tired look — already beginning to dissipate — Draco seems perfectly fine. He sips the water slowly, but drinks more than half of the glass before giving it back. Harry takes a sip too, mostly because his mouth tastes a bit sour from sleep.

“Did I pass out?” Draco asks, voice grainy. He sounds surprised.

“Close enough to,” Harry says. “You went pretty deep into—”

Draco waves a hand at him. “I know, I just—” He rubs a hand over his face. Pulls it away, eyes catching on the glimmer of the bracelet still around his wrists. With a small, ironic twist to his mouth he says, “I’ve never gone so deep before.”

Pleased, Harry sits back against the truly atrocious amount of pillows Draco has. “Really?”

“Don’t even think about preening at me. You didn’t let me come for an hour, and then forced me to come twice in the span of fifteen minutes,” Draco says with a soft snort. He hesitates. “I didn’t expect you to stay the whole night.”

“You liked it,” Harry said, smirking. “And why the bloody hell wouldn’t I?”

Draco shrugs, overly-casual. “Things change, once… things change,” he says, frowning.

Harry frowns too. “Did you not hear what I said last night?”

“Which part? I barely got a word in edgewise.” Mouth ticking up at the corner, Harry just looks at Draco until some of his bravado falters. His cheeks grow pink. “I heard it.”

“Do you not want that?” Harry asks, disliking the streak of uncertainty that bolts through him. 

“Pet names and exclusivity? Orgasms that make me question my own sanity? Who would?” Draco returns dryly.

“Don’t do that,” Harry says, voice low. Draco’s eyes drop. His lips purse.

“I want it,” he admits, more carefully than he had last night. More cogently, too, and thank fuck for that. “But, Harry— this is more complica—”

Harry cuts off his objection with a kiss, slow and thorough. “It’s really not, though,” he says when he pulls back. 

And it isn’t. Harry wants, and thinks he’s _found_ the thing — in Draco — that he’s been looking for elsewhere these past several years. Thinks Draco has too. Thinks they may have been just looking for each other.

“Work?” Draco asks huskily. 

“Well, I won’t tie you up when we’re on a case,” Harry says with a smirk. 

“You blindfolded me when we were on one,” Draco points out, one elegant eyebrow arching.

Harry hums, fiddling with one thin cuff over Draco’s wrist. “I was tempting you,” he says, and smiles when Draco scoffs. “You never said why you didn’t log the cock-ring into evidence.”

Draco looks down; his hair falls in a pale sheet across his cheek, obscuring his small, smug smile. “I thought you’d touched it accidentally before I stopped you,” he says. “I could feel your magic on it — distinct, unlike the other… offerings — and was trying to rid the ring of it before I turned it in, and you can imagine how unsuccessful I was; I couldn’t figure out why. But then the blindfold showed up and…” He shrugs. 

Inexplicably touched that Draco would try to protect him, and only a little annoyed that Draco still thought him fool enough to play with evidence with bare hands — though he wouldn’t be _Draco_ if he weren’t habitually giving Harry very little credit (something Harry is determined will stop immediately, henceforth) — Harry kisses him again. Draco makes a small sound of pleasure, submitting to Harry’s rough, possessive mouth and threading his hands into Harry’s hair. 

Harry clears his throat when he pulls back. “Then we’re doing this,” he says.

“I guess we are,” Draco agrees faintly, pupils dilated. He licks his lips.

Harry Summons the small box in his robes. He has several commissioned, in various states of readiness, but he’d had no idea how long this would take, or how simple it could turn out to be. The silver box flies into his hand and Draco draws away, eyebrows knitting even as a slow smile curls his mouth. 

“What is it?” he says, looking down at the shimmering box, inlaid at the clasp with a single emerald. 

“A present,” Harry says. Draco’s smile grows, eclipsing the beauty of the gift proffered in Harry's hand. Harry smiles too. “Open it, and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are lovely.
> 
> Also I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com/) now, too. *waves*


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